Total Rush (28 page)

There was just one thing left to do. She called Sean.

One more hour
until I talk to Gemma.
This was the only thought Sean could keep in his head while he helped two probies clean the firehouse kitchen. Technically, he wasn't obliged to help, but he had so much anticipatory energy he felt he'd split his skin if he didn't do something.

It had been such a relief to come home from a visit to his folks to find the red light blinking on his answering machine. And then to hear Gemma's voice on tape . . .
Hi, Sean, it's Gemma. I got your note. I would love to meet you at Starbucks, say, at eight? If I don't hear from you, I'll assume that's okay. Okay, so, um . . . see you then. Bye.

He'd allowed himself to feel self-congratulatory for approximately five seconds before doubt began creeping in. Had her voice sounded a little cold and detached? He played the tape. No, it was fine. Five minutes passed. Wait: Had she said
if I hear from you,
I'll assume we're on, or
if I
don't
hear from you
? He played the tape again.
If I don't hear from you.
Ah. He knew it was nuts, but he rewound the tape and played it once more, noting every pause, every nuance in her voice just for good measure.

“Yo, where's Birdman?”

Hearing Sal Ojeda asking for him, Sean strolled out of the kitchen onto the apparatus floor.

“Hey, Sal, what's up?”

“Gotta ask a mega favor of you, my man.”

“Shoot.”

“You up for pulling a twenty-four and covering for me tonight? I was supposed to cover for Hanratty on the five to nine but now I can't. Something came up.”

Sean rubbed his chin thoughtfully, staring down at the cement floor. These were not words he wanted to hear. Normally, he'd have no problems switching with Sal or anyone else, no questions asked. But this involved rescheduling Gemma. Sean looked up.

“What's going on?”

“It's Janine.” Janine was Sal's wife. “Today is our one-year anniversary, and of course, I forgot. She brought me breakfast in bed this morning along with this mushy card. I almost croaked. I covered by saying I had something special planned for tonight. I need to hustle down to the diamond district and pick something up, then take her out for a nice candlelight dinner or my ass is grass, my friend. Can you cover for me?”

Sean took a deep breath and blew out. “Sure.” He had no choice. It was part of the code: When someone asked you to cover for him with good reason, you accommodated him, especially if you were single and had more flexibility. Christ knows Sal had covered for him on short notice a few times. He had to reschedule with Gemma.

 

 

“Gemma?”

“No, this is Julie.” The young female voice on the other end of the phone sounded suspicious. “Can I help you?”

“Julie, my name is Sean Kennealy. I'm a friend of Gemma's. We're supposed to meet for coffee, but I'm stuck at work and won't be able to make it. Gemma's not listed in the book and I don't have her home number on me. Would you mind giving it to me, please?”

“I can't give out my boss's home phone number,” Julie scoffed.

Sean's left hand slowly curled into a fist. “Then, would you mind calling Gemma's home number and leaving a message for me?” There was no answer. “Julie?”

“Hold on, I have a customer.”

Sean twitched with irritation as Julie, who obviously ran the Golden Bough for Gemma at night, smashed the phone down on the counter. Just his luck to miss Gemma. Just his luck for her not to be listed in the goddamn phone book, either. He could just make out the muffled voice of Julie telling someone where the books on candle magick were. A second later Julie was back on the line, her voice blasting Sean out of the reverie playing in his own head, which went like this:
Please please please say yes.

“Sorry 'bout that. You were saying?”

“Can you leave a message for Gemma on her home machine for me?”

Julie hesitated. “I can leave a message for her here that you called. But I'm really not comfortable leaving a message for her at home when I don't know you from Adam.”

Sean closed his eyes, gently pounding his forehead against the concrete wall three times before getting back on the line. “This is an emergency, okay?”

“I'm sorry, but I can't help you.” Julie was curt. “The best I can do is leave a message for her here that she'll get tomorrow.”

“Fine,” Sean snapped. “Tell her Sean called and he needs to reschedule our coffee date because he has to pull a double shift at work. Tell her I'll call her as soon as I can.”

“Do you want to leave a number?”

“She's got my number. I just wish I had hers.”

He slammed the phone down. The reverie in his head changed its tune. It now went like this:
fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

Now what?

Starbucks. He'd call Starbucks and leave a message.

He lunged for the phone book, heart sinking as he scanned what seemed like hundreds of listings for Starbucks within Manhattan. Finally he found the one he was looking for and called. No one answered.

“Pick up the phone, you lazy cappuccino-sucking bastards!” he yelled just as the Cap walked by.

McCloskey threw him a puzzled look. “Everything okay, Sean?”

“Peachy,” Sean muttered, hanging up the phone. His captain stood there. “I'm having a hard time getting ahold of someone I need to talk to,” Sean explained lamely.

The Cap nodded and moved on. Sean waited until he was out of earshot and dialed the number for Starbucks again. Again there was no answer. But this time he didn't have time to throw a conniption. The bell sounded and he, along with everyone else on the shift, went running to the apparatus floor to put his turnout gear on. Time to go to work.

 

 

Gemma could forgive
someone for being fifteen minutes late. After all, you never knew if a subway was delayed or a bus trapped in traffic. Even half an hour could be excused if the circumstances were extenuating. But forty-five minutes? Peering down into her chai latte, Gemma wondered if she qualified as totally pathetic for having waited this long for Sean.

The universe answered resoundingly: yes.

She drained her cup and threw it in the trash, making her way outside. Had she ever been stood up before? She combed her memory. No . . . wait . . . .yes. Sophomore year of college, New Year's Eve, right here in Manhattan. Zev Greenberg, NYU film student who made her heart go pit-a-pat, had promised to call her to finalize plans to meet in Times Square and kiss her passionately as the ball came down. He never called. Gemma rang in the New Year by throwing herself across Frankie's bed and crying her heart out.

Men.

Of course, it was feasible that something had come up. But if that was the case, why didn't he call? Maybe he had; maybe she'd come home to a message from him? It was beginning to dawn on her it might indeed be time to join the twenty-first century and get a cell phone. She'd resisted up until now: The idea of anyone being able to get ahold of her at any time horrified her. But she was beginning to see there were some advantages to cellular technology. For example: It could save you the humiliation of sitting in a Starbucks staring into space for forty-five minutes.

Despite swearing off omens, at least where Sean was concerned, Gemma's gut told her she'd be a stone idiot not to take his failure to show as a divine sign that this wasn't meant to be. What she wanted and what the universe knew to be best for her were clearly two different things. How else to explain the continual failure of expectation and reality to meet?

She approached her building with dread. Any other woman who'd been stood up had the luxury of slipping into their apartment unnoticed to nurse their wounds in private. But not Gemma. She always ran the risk of running into Sean.

Gloomy, Gemma hustled inside and up to her apartment, fully expecting to find a message from Sean. There wasn't one. However, there was a message from her Aunt Millie, panicked because she couldn't find Nonna's medication. Gemma called her back and in the end wound up going out to Brooklyn herself for the night. Why not? She had no life anyway.

 

 

The next morning
at work, she found a note from Julie. “Sean called. Something came up at work, he needs to reschedule coffee. He'll call.”

Sure he will,
Gemma thought ruefully.
And Nonna will get better and Mom will embrace me for who I am and Frankie will stop succumbing to imaginary ailments.
Something was wrong with her, something she'd never really experienced before. She felt despairing and out of sorts. Poise and equanimity were retreating, replaced by an overwhelming sense of exhaustion and futility. Some people would say she was sliding into depression. But Gemma saw it differently.

What she was experiencing was a complete and utter lack of faith.

And she hated it.

 

 

Dialing Gemma
'
s home
number and getting her answering machine—again—Sean hung up the phone, cradling his head in his hands. She was deliberately screening his calls. How else to explain not being able to get ahold of her all Thursday night? All day Sunday? All Sunday night? The woman was a self-proclaimed homebody, was she not? That had to mean she was home, but didn't want to talk to him.

He knew he could leave a long, drawn-out message for her, explaining all about Sal and pulling a twenty-four, but he hated people who babbled away endlessly on answering machines. He'd been keeping his messages short and to the point, simply asking her to call him back so they could reschedule coffee. He'd left three. He wasn't going to leave another. Three messages was pathetic enough as it was.

Or . . .

Sean threw on his coat. It was time for another visit to the Golden Bough.

 

 

Arriving at the
store, Sean was dismayed to find not Gemma behind the counter, but a young woman in her mid-twenties with jet-black hair, her slim, bare arms covered in snaking tattoos. The unhelpful Julie, no doubt. How she wasn't freezing her ass off wearing a tank top in the middle of winter was beyond him. Perhaps the hipper you were, the less you felt the cold.

“Hi,” Sean said, friendly. “Is Gemma around?”

The kohl-rimmed eyes regarded him suspiciously. “You are—?”

“Sean. I called last week, remember? The guy you wouldn't give Gemma's home number to?”

“Riiiight.”

“Is she here?”

“She's in the stockroom. Hang on a minute, I'll see if she wants to talk to you.”

Sean managed a polite smile. “Thanks.”

Who was this girl, Gemma's bodyguard?
I'll see if she wants to talk to you, my foot. Go get your boss, kid, and be quick about it.

A few seconds later, Gemma emerged from the back. It wasn't until that moment that Sean realized he'd been hoping she would break into a big smile when she saw him. When she didn't, he wondered whether he hadn't acted too impulsively in coming.

“Hello,” Gemma said.

“Hi.” Sean was immediately struck by how tired she looked. There were bags forming beneath her wary eyes, and her color wasn't good. He was tempted to ask if she was feeling okay, but he didn't want to risk getting off on the wrong foot and insulting her. He held his tongue.

“What's up?” Gemma asked.

“I've left you a couple of phone messages.” Sean craned his neck past her, checking to make sure he wasn't going to be interrupted by her sullen henchwoman. Luck was with him; it seemed Elvira would be remaining in the back. “I don't know if you got them.”

“I haven't been home much.”

“No?” A homebody who wasn't home much; that got his attention. “Where have you been?” The words were no sooner out of his mouth than he regretted speaking them, especially when he saw the hardness that came to Gemma's eyes. “I know,” he said hastily. “It's none of my business.”

“Not really. But it's nothing mysterious,” she volunteered. “My grandmother in Brooklyn is sick and I've been helping to take care of her. That's why I haven't been around.”

“Oh. Is she starting to feel better?”

“No.” Gemma looked distraught. “She has Alzheimer's. She's not going to get better.”

“Geez, I'm sorry to hear that,” Sean said, feeling at a loss for words. Gemma just shrugged.

“I wanted to apologize for having to cancel our coffee last week. One of the guys at the house asked me to cover for him, and I couldn't say no.”

Gemma looked baffled. “Why not?”

“Because you can't do that. When someone asks you to cover for them, you cover for them, unless you absolutely can't.”

Gemma's expression remained confused. “Why couldn't he have asked someone else? You had plans.”

“You don't understand.” Sean could feel his back knotting with tension. “There's a code—”

“I know all about your code,” Gemma said irritably. “I experienced it firsthand, remember?”

Sean blinked, bewildered. “What's the problem here, Gemma?”

She looked hurt. “You stood me up.”

Sean grit his teeth. “I left a message for you here. I would have left a message for you at home but your assistant”—he tossed a disgusted look toward the back of the store—“wouldn't give me your number, and you're not listed in the book. What was I supposed to do? I even called Starbucks. The putzes wouldn't pick up the phone.”